Slow down sun you are too swift,
we cannot grasp your emanations.
Gamma specks from the alpha mock your power.
Can your magnetic radiance bend them to our curve of space?
Or will the tangents of strings forever define our physicalness?
Bits of yarn, silly string, and infinitesimal things,
all is made of vibrating nothings; this alone exalts us–pity.
We by sheer ego must have something in which to exist and digest our way through,
even if it is for a short time framed and underwritten by a trembling crystal of cesium,
the gong is struck by untouchable, irreversible radiation.
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